


yet in thy dark streets shineth

by maggiedragon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bittersweet, Christmas Truce of 1914, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, World War I, references to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-05 00:09:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13375962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon
Summary: Theseus writhing against his tongue, his mouth was like worship. Communion. It was all the things the Graves family had eschewed since the day Gondulphus had seen the Scourers burn one of their own at the stake and the only way Graves knew how to sing vespers was to make Theseus scream it.or: Christmas on the front lines gets harder every year. Graves is bad at talking, but his actions say plenty.





	yet in thy dark streets shineth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LotusRox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/gifts), [na_shao](https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/gifts).



> a belated holiday gift! 
> 
> Title is from O Little Town of Bethlehem because I am a terrible human being.

It didn’t snow in France, or so Percival Graves had been told. In the mountains, sometimes. In the cities even more rarely, bringing the gaslit streets to a skidding to a slippery, frozen halt before melting away nearly immediately. It never accumulated like the Christmases of his childhood, the Catskills hanging still and quiet in the background as the Graves Estate slumbered under a thick white coverlet. What that _actually_ meant, he’d learned after two years of war, was that when it did snow, it turned into a filthy bone-chilling slush.

It was better than trench mud, that thick viscous slime that Graves had seen men drown in. He still hated it though. Still missed the clean silent snowfall of his home. 

The crack of Apparition rang off the battered walls of the village like a sniper shot and Graves felt Tommy’s wards part around him as his feet hit the ground. Cold made him shiver as slush seeped into his boots. The _Impervious_ Charm he’d woven the other day was starting to disintegrate, but he’d deal with it later. 

He found his squad camped out in the dubious shelter of a ruined _brasserie_. A Whippet-- Graves could tell by the treadmarks still frozen into the mud-- had taken out part of the wall and the building gaped open to the weather. Bluebell flames guttered low on a pile of damp broken chair legs and Tommy and Edmund were quarreling mostly goodnaturedly about politics.

“Graves.” Tommy held up a bottle. “Happy fucking Christmas. Sodding weather froze all the taps, but the Frogs had plenty of cider laid in.”

“Maybe later.” He glanced around. “Where’s Scamander?”

Edmund took one of his hands from where he’d been warming it over the fire and gestured across the square to the parish church. “Said he was going to pop up to the bell tower and get the lay of the land. Hasn’t come back yet.” 

“I’ll go check.”

“Sure you don’t want to stay and hear about how the Apostles were the first communists?” Edmund commented, London accent not quite smooth or round enough to hide his exasperation.

“Oh bugger off. I know what I’m talking about. Mark ten twenty-five. It is easier for a camel to go through the--” 

Graves left them to it, leaving the meager shelter of the brasserie and stepping back out into the slush. The wind had picked up and he tucked his chin into his scarf. He could still hear the two Brits quarreling though-- Tommy’s sharp vowels carrying clearly even into the square. 

_Manchester._ He’d learned to tell the difference over the past two years, the faintest difference in vocabulary, vowels, what consonants they slurred and what ones rang out clearly, each with their own history, class, religion, lore. Posh Edmund, brash Tommy, Theseus’ own carefully cultivated Received Pronunciation and the way it slipped back into Sussex when he was tired or angry or fucked out with pleasure. 

It was a small parish church, sturdy stone construction pocked with bullet holes. Narrow arched window frames stood empty, stained glass taken down and hidden against the bombing. Or maybe destroyed. Graves didn’t know. The villagers had tacked up oilcloths to cover the vacant space, but they’d been torn down by the wind and weather, letting a faint buttery yellow light slip filter out into the street. 

Theseus’ _Lumos_. 

When Graves stepped into the church, he saw Theseus standing in the nave, looking over the altar. He held his wand down by his side, the glowing tip of it casting long shadows of his boots, thighs, trench coat along the wall. Even the thick winter fabric couldn’t hid the slim frame; the peaked officer’s hat had been folded violently and shoved in a pocket to reveal copper hair cropped so short Graves could nearly see his scalp. 

“Thes.”

“Happy fucking Christmas.” The Brit’s skin was pale with cold under the dusting of freckles no lack of sun could erase and two days of stubble dusted his jaw. 

“You’ve spent too much time with Tommy.” Graves took off his own blue scarf-- a gift, sent by his sister last year when they were close enough to the infantry lines to make some attempt at festivities-- and draped it over the other man’s neck. 

“Are the apostles communist again this year?” 

“Of course. Matthew, Marx, Luke and John.” 

Theseus snorted but didn’t say anything more. 

The wind gusted and an oilcloth scraped across the old stone floor before coming to rest at the foot of a pillar. Theseus ducked his chin and mouth into the scarf and blew for a moment, using his own breath to warm his lips. 

They stood there together for a long moment, Graves waiting patiently for Theseus to decide to talk, to speak aloud whatever demon had driven him into this church. 

“I’m cold, Perce,” Theseus finally said. 

“I know.” The scarf had caught on Theseus’ chin. Graves reached out and adjusted it, tucking it more fully into his coat--- then stayed there when Theseus closed the gap between them, bare head settling onto his shoulder.

Graves pulled off his gloves, slid a bare hand through the whitewall cut, the copper fuzz at the nape of his neck brushing against his palm. This wasn’t about the cold. The Brit was taller than him by a good four inches, but right now Theseus was making himself small and Graves knew there was something bone-deep trying to work its way out. 

“I’m _tired_.” 

“I know.” 

“We were supposed to be done by Christmas.”

And a third time, because there had never been any point in denying it. “I know.” 

No one had ever expected the war to drag on for so long, for the idiot Bosnian boy with a gun to have launched such carnage. Theseus had had no personal motive to fight. He’d joined to do the right thing and paid for it time and again. By the time Graves had disembarked in London, spitting mad and grieving and looking for a way to forget, Theseus had been at war for nearly a year. 

A cork popped in the _brasserie_ across the square; Tommy and Edmund must be opening another bottle of cider, but the sound, sharp and sudden, had both of them spinning, wands in hand and Shield Spells glowing opalescent before they even processed what it was. 

“I’m going to strangle them both in their sleep,” Theseus announced as he put his wand away. 

“We should go back.” 

“Later. I don’t--” Frayed nerves and some unspoken anguish were leaking Sussex back into his voice, vowels broad, t’s voiced. 

“Theseus.” Graves touched his face and made the other man look at him. “What is it?” 

“I don’t know if I’ve told you”-- and Theseus turned back towards him, buried his head again-- “about the first Christmas I spent here. Before you came over.”

“1914?”

Theseus nodded mutely. 

Graves brushed his fingers over the back of the Brit’s neck again. He had an idea of what Theseus was alluding to-- hushed rumors had made it back to MACUSA, other soldiers had spoken of it in passing-- but what did Theseus want him to say about it? 

“I’ve heard there were accusations of cowardice.”

Wrong. Wrong and he felt every inch of aching fatigue limning Theseus’ heart light up in hurt and betrayal and _rage_.

“Fuck you, Perce,” and the Brit jerked away from him. 

“Thes--” Graves began, but the other man didn’t hear him. 

“We didn’t want to be there; the French didn’t want to be there. Even the damn Boche didn’t want to be there. So we stopped shooting each other and got out of the mud. For twelve sodding hours and you call that _cowardice_?” Theseus scoffed bitterly. “Don’t worry, Perce. We got back to killing each other for no damn reason real quick, yes _sir_.” 

“I’m sorry.” What else could he say? 

“They split my unit up, threatened to court-martial the sergeant. Sent half of us to the Eastern front. Because somehow _not shooting people on Christmas_ is something to be ashamed of.”

As if religion had ever been anything but an excuse for violence. The Scourers had taught Graves’ family that-- self-loathing zealots killing their own for an unforgiving God. But Theseus wanted light, hope, clung to it and stood here shouting in all his fury and naivete and passion. 

Did he know how beautiful he was?

“So fuck you. I’m not a fucking coward.” 

Theseus’ voice trembled at the end in a way that undercut all his bravado, but he stood his ground, a wild horse refusing to be tamed, refusing to admit that he cared at all about what Graves thought. 

“I know, darling,” Graves said and kissed him. 

The _oh thank God_ was nearly non-verbal against Graves’ lips and then Theseus was kissing him back, pulling at his coat even as the wind gusted around them again. 

The war had gone on too long; the people who should have lit the world had bled and died for it instead-- in the stinking slime of the trenches, alone and scared in the dark water of the Atlantic. Cador Graves on the _Lusitania_ , Private Crispin with his guts strewn out over no-man’s-land and screaming for his mother.

They’d stumbled backwards somehow; Theseus landed heavily on one of the pews, foot skidding on an oilcloth and Graves came down astride him, sucked a line of wet kisses down his neck. The cold didn’t matter any more-- chilled fingers fumbling with trench coat buttons; Graves hissed at how cold Theseus’ touch was under his shirt. 

“How long have you been here?”

“Tommy and Edmund were on their _first_ bottle of cider.” Theseus grinned up at him insouciantly, all bravado and sass even as he shivered. “So how fast were they drinking?” 

It must have been over an hour then, alone with his thoughts and the aching cold and fatigue and the memories of when his commanding officers had punished them all for being human. For being barely more than children. _Theseus_. Theseus trading shots of schnapps and single malt with the Bosche on a Christmas Day truce. Unconscious and bleeding his life away, dragon teeth shredding flesh from bone, flame scorching his wand and fingers to ash and bone. 

Graves hadn’t realized he’d undone Theseus’ belt until it clinked against the hardwood of the pew, until he felt the warmth of the other man’s cock against his palm, until Theseus hissed and pressed into it. 

“Gonna keep me warm, Yankee?” Theseus drawled and even before he finished the tease, Graves had spun wordless magic around them both, heat sinking into their skin in an unspoken answer.

“Do more if you want,” Graves offered, palm rubbing back and forth over Theseus, feeling the other man start to harden against him. 

“Merlin, Perce. Here?” Theseus laughed breathlessly, hips canting against his fingers.

“Here.” Cold light flickered through the window, clouds racing over the moon. To hell with piety and decency when he had this man copper-lashed and freckled between his thighs. Graves slid a thumb over Theseus’ lower lip. “You shouldn’t be alone.”  
Gratitude flickered like moonlight across Theseus’ face and for once, he didn’t speak, just nodded his consent and pressed a kiss against the pad of Graves’ thumb. 

Graves slid to the floor between Theseus’ knees, opening his pants the rest of the way to take him into his mouth, humming and purring at the salt taste of his lover’s skin. The Brit was already half-hard and he raked a hand through Graves’ carefully groomed hair, dislodging bits of it so it fell down around his face, into his eyes as he worked. 

Not enough. Not enough for this beautiful bonfire of a soul, heedless and reckless in who it loved and what it wanted, who could rain down Hell with a flick of his wand and take Graves apart with a twist of his hips. 

Graves vanished Theseus’ trousers and the Brit gasped out a wordless _showoff_ even as Graves pulled his hips forward,nearly to the edge of the pew, thighs draped over his shoulders. Theseus was panting, breath coming out in eager white plumes as Graves kissed a line up the inside of his thigh, scraped his teeth over his balls and went lower. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“Let me.” Graves’ tongue flicked out, tracing a line along the perineum, drew circles around the rosette of Theseus’ entrance until his lover whimpered and shifted for him, an invitation to continue. The Brit had taught him to enjoy this-- on a summer evening when their artillery wouldn’t stop booming and Theseus had buried himself and his mouth and his shaking terror in the haven of Graves’ body. 

He started slow, but Theseus’ whimpers, the heat of his body around him against the bite of the winter air made his control slip and he groaned against the curve of his lover’s ass, licking deeper, more ardently. Devouring. He kept one arm around Theseus’ waist, keeping him close, nearly immobile so he could do as he liked even as his other hand slid into his own pants, cock hardening rapidly and aching against his own palm. 

“Fuck!” Theseus’ head went back against the pew as he moaned, still fully dressed from the hips up but bare white legs exposed to the winter air, shaking as they wrapped around Graves’ shoulder. A heel pressed helpless into the nape of his neck as he worked and licked, opening his lover up. 

Graves was swollen and aching against the fabric of his uniform and every time he shifted to accomodate for the way Theseus moved and moaned, another shot of electricity curled into his stomach. Theseus writhing against his tongue, his mouth was like worship. Communion. It was all the things the Graves family had eschewed since the day Gondulphus had seen the Scourers burn one of their own at the stake and the only way Graves knew how to sing vespers was to make Theseus scream it. 

“Fuck, Perce. Perce, _please_.” Theseus’ hand shook as it brushed over his head, fisted in the loose strands of his disheveled hair. “Want you. Now. Don’t make me wait.”

Graves broke away from his lover with a wet sound, lips damp and red, a thread of saliva still connecting them for a moment before it broke. He willed his own trousers to vanish and the sudden change in temperature, even moderated by magic, nearly made him come there and then. The sight of Theseus crumpled in the pew with his cock red and swollen with need, entrance slick and shining with Graves’ own spit and so dazed he needed help to get down from the pew and astride him--

\--that wasn’t helping either. 

Theseus fumbled, swore and finally got them aligned, sinking down on Graves with a cry. They moved. Theseus was slick and tight around him, saliva leaving the friction just this edge of too much. One of the Brit’s hands slid over his hair, fisting in the central sweep of it, the other mapped over the uniform, the coat half open and draped around them both, caught his collar and pulled him close to stifle his cries in Graves’ mouth as he rode. 

“More, Perce. Please. Fuck me.”

Theseus was wrapped as tight around his cock as he was around his heart. How could Graves tell him no? So he put Theseus on his back against the cold stone floor of the parish church, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other wrapped around his erection and gave him what he wanted. 

Theseus cried out again, bare heel skidding against the stone, pushing up into Graves’ thrusting, the other locked around his waist again. 

“Merlin, Perce, please!” and Graves could feel him leaking over his fingers.

“I have you; I have you, _darling_ ,” Graves choked out the reassurance. 

Theseus screamed for the both of them, shaking himself to pieces in his lover’s arms as he came and the force of his pleasure was a tidal wave that dragged Graves’ along in his wake.

They were still for a moment as they gasped for air. Graves laid his head down on Theseus’ chest, hearing his heartbeat pound. The Brit’s fingers moved exhaustedly over his back, his collar, his disheveled hair. 

“You’re anything but a coward, Thes.”

Theseus huffed a laugh. “Keep pulling stunts like this and I--- I’ll pick fights with you more often.”

Across the square, Tommy’s voice-- choir-boy clear-- started to sing in the brasserie and the shifting clouds let moonlight slide in and out of the vacant church windows. 

So many people had died. Private Crispin in the mud and the screaming of Ypres. Graves’ own brother in the icy Atlantic. People who should have lit the world. But Theseus was still here, still alive and shining and somehow smiling up at him from the cold stone. 

Graves leaned down and kissed him softly. “We should go back before those idiots drink all the cider.” 

There was one light he could keep shining-- and it was the only one that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments or come chat at https://maggieandthedragon.tumblr.com/


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